The first real dancing I did after my dad died in December was a square dance held at Peabody Heights Brewery in Abell or Charles Village or Waverly or Harwood, depending on who you ask. It was also my first social activity since his death, and I was really nervous about holding it together in public. The ladyfriend took me, assured me I could do it but could leave if I couldn't, and we met a couple of her co-workers to give it a try. And I could totally do it. The great thing about square dancing is that unlike other kinds of dancing, somebody's giving you directions. For the uncomfortable or nervous dancer, this is awesome. Whether you're good at dancing or not, chances are you don't follow directions all that well, and you'll fuck up. A lot. Nobody cares, though, because everybody's fucking up, and it's funny and fun, and when you do manage to get it right, you feel strangely accomplished. For a barely-hanging-on-through-the-grief dancer, it's kind of perfect.